


Emergency Contact

by red_carnations



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bickering, Evil Plans, Eye Trauma, Horror Treated Comedically, Hospitals, Humor, M/M, Peter Lukas hates people so so much, Pre-Canon, and suddenly you've put your husband's consciousness into the body of his least competent employee, that's not a tag but it should be, though it isn't described at all, you take one (1) shortcut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_carnations/pseuds/red_carnations
Summary: Jonah Magnus always has a backup plan, especially regarding the prevention of his own death. So when James Wright suffers an unexpected heart attack, the responsibility of finding an appropriate candidate to be Jonah's new host is thrust into the thoroughly unenthused hands of one Peter Lukas.inspired bythis tumblr post.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 47
Kudos: 193





	Emergency Contact

**Author's Note:**

> other tma writers: treats jonah's body-hopping with appropriate gravity  
> me: this fic

Fortunately, Peter was in port when the call came in.

“Sorry,” he said, when the woman on the other end paused for breath. He’d stopped to answer the phone in the middle of a boardwalk, but no one was around to be inconvenienced. Other than Peter himself. “Did you say that James Wright is dead?”

The woman didn’t answer right away - probably looking for a delicate way to put it. There likely wasn’t one, but Peter waited patiently anyhow, the cool sea air nipping at what little of his skin was exposed.

Waves lapped gently against the dock posts.

“He’s had a heart attack,” the woman said at last. “And it doesn’t look good. There’s still a chance he’ll pull through, of course, but -”

“Right. He’s old.” Peter tried not to sound too annoyed about this. Then again, people probably did tend to sound annoyed when their loved ones were on the brink of death, right? That was a thing?

“Mm,” said the woman, tactfully declining to comment. “Now, since you’re listed as his - emergency contact? In case of such an event?”

“Right,” Peter said again, some of his annoyance definitely coming through this time. _Of course_. It was just like James to assure him that a precaution would never be needed, then have a heart attack just to spite him. “I’ll be there soon.”

The woman started to say something else, but Peter hung up before she could. No sense in prolonging that conversation any longer than necessary. He jammed the phone back into his pocket and sighed, his breath coming out in a puff of white mist.

“Damn it, James,” he said aloud, scuffing the toe of his boot against the weathered wood of the boardwalk. “You couldn’t have waited a few more days?”

There was no reply. Not that he’d expected one, what with the heart attack and all, but he’d kind of gotten used to having James’ omnipresent consciousness hovering around. He wasn’t sure how to feel about its absence.

 _Time enough for that later_. Peter sighed again. He'd been planning to leave again soon, take his ship and his crew on another long voyage. Now it seemed he had an errand of an entirely different nature to run. “Here we go,” he muttered, and let the fog of the Lonely envelop him.

If you closed your eyes, the Lonely wasn’t really that different from the dreary dock he’d left behind. The damp feeling in the air was the same, as was the penetrating cold - the kind of chill that seeped through your clothes and settled into your pores. The sound of the waves, too, was there, though softer and more distant.

Really, the most striking difference between the two was the immediate sense of _relief_ Peter felt every time he entered the Lonely. It was the only place he’d ever truly felt at home.

He emerged five minutes later inside James Wright’s apartment, a few tendrils of fog still clinging to his boots.

 _James wouldn’t have liked_ _that_ , he mused, rubbing his hands together to dispel the numbness that had settled there. James never liked Peter using the Lonely to travel into his places, which was why Peter did it as often as possible. Something about cross-contamination.

“Too late for that now,” Peter muttered. He cast a sideways glance at an absurdly pretentious modern-style painting hanging on the apartment wall. Abstract swirls of color covered the canvas, layered over each other in a way that gave Peter a headache if he looked at it too long. There were probably a dozen eyes hidden in the thing - but of course, James couldn’t make use of them now.

The thought made him feel vaguely more cheerful. Not bothering to take off his shoes, he headed to the kitchen.

As if James had expected his present difficulties, the area was practically spotless. Every surface looked like someone had gone over it with a wet rag ten minutes before, all the cabinets were shut neatly, and there wasn’t so much as a plate in the sink. The only sign that someone actually lived there was a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the end of the clean countertop. Peter took a drink from the bottle as he passed it, heading toward the cabinet at the opposite end of the counter.

He found the thermos exactly where James had said it would be. Opening the cabinet, he pulled down a smooth, dark blue metal cylinder with a simple screw-on lid - not exactly the most sophisticated container for the consciousness of an Avatar, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Although Peter hadn’t exactly begged for this job. Actually, his precise words had been something closer to, "Isn't there literally _anyone_ else?"

Nevertheless, he brought the thermos over to the refrigerator. Holding it beneath the spout of the ice cube maker, he listened to the soft whir it made, the hollow clunk of the ice against metal. Whatever warmth had returned to his fingers since leaving the Lonely quickly drained away. He kept the thermos there until it was about three-quarters of the way full, then stopped the ice cube maker and screwed the lid back on. Hopefully that would be enough to keep a pair of human eyes comfortable until he could shove them into the sockets of someone else’s skull.

Peter grimaced. _Lovely thought, that_. He took another drink of wine - it wasn’t a bad vintage - and briefly entertained the idea of rearranging all of James’ furniture while he was there. Surely _some_ kind of petty revenge was in order.

But the insistent ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece brought him back to his senses. It wouldn’t do for James to die before Peter could tell him just how annoyed he was about having to do this. Sighing, he tucked the thermos into one of his coat pockets and walked over to James’ desk.

The desk James kept in his apartment wasn’t nearly as pretty as the one in the Magnus Institute, but its contents were just as meticulously organized. Papers, mostly - as if James didn’t get enough of that at work. Following the instructions James had given him, Peter opened the top drawer and rifled through several neatly labeled folders until he found a plastic bag full of sharp metal implements that he personally would not have wanted anywhere near his eyes.

Maybe serving the Beholding desensitized you to that sort of thing, Peter thought as he slipped the bag into another pocket. Or maybe James was just a freak; that seemed the more probable option.

He shut the drawer with a clang and gave the desktop a cursory once-over. The smooth metal surface was completely bare but for a couple of pens and a large quartz paperweight that wasn’t holding anything down. Honestly, why James didn’t just move all his things to his office in the institute and save himself the bother . . .

Peter paused. Considered the paperweight.

On an impulse, he reached out and picked it up. The chunk of quartz was reasonably heavy and fit nicely in his hand. _Could be_ _useful_. And it would annoy the shit out of James when he realized it was missing, which was reason enough to take it along.

He put the paperweight in his pocket beside the thermos and faded back into the Lonely.

The hospital was a sterile, impersonal building, every inch of it painted in various shades of white and beige. The floor was a bright, polished white, as if the owners wanted people to think no one had ever set foot there. James had told him that he’d likely be taken there in the event of some unplanned medical emergency, as it was the closest hospital by far to the Magnus Institute. James had also told him that this was really the only thing to recommend it.

In other words, it was exactly the kind of place Peter Lukas liked best.

He glanced around the small waiting area just beyond the front doors. To one side of the room, several people waited on highly uncomfortable-looking couches. To the other side was a desk, with a receptionist seated behind it.

He briefly wondered if he could manage to get into James' room without talking to anyone. He had a lot of practice at being unobtrusive, after all. The people on the couches probably wouldn't stop him, and the receptionist appeared distracted, typing something on a boxy computer and not paying attention to his surroundings. It would be almost too easy to just slip past into the halls beyond.

Then again, if he got caught trying to sneak into a hospital room without permission, it would result in far more human interaction than securing a visit through the proper channels.

Mind made up, Peter approached the desk. His boots clacked on the overshined floor, making him wince with every footfall. Just as well he hadn’t tried to sneak into James’ room. It was bad enough that people were looking at him now.

The receptionist, however, was one of the few who hadn’t looked over at the noise. Tapping away at his keyboard (really, how did people use those things?), he took a moment to notice Peter standing there. When he did, he blinked a bit, as if clearing out his vision.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice somewhat fuzzy. “Er, good afternoon.”

“Hi,” Peter said with a little wave. “I’m here to see James Wright.”

The receptionist nodded. “And . . . are you a relative?”

“Oh,” Peter said, “I’m his, uh -” he hesitated, counting on his fingers. “Husband?” He thought about it a bit more, then shook his head. “No, ex-husband, I remember now.”

The receptionist blinked again. “I see,” he said slowly.

Peter smiled, perhaps too broadly. “That’s good.”

The idea of maintaining eye contact any longer suddenly seemed unbearably excruciating. He glanced around, thinking longingly of the hours of blissful solitude he could’ve been spending on the _Tundra_ , and found himself looking at a clear plastic stand of pamphlets next to the desk. None of them advertised things he wanted.

He looked back at the receptionist, this time focusing on his tie instead of his face. Maybe that would make this easier. “Yes, I’m Peter Lukas,” he said. “I’m the emergency contact for James Wright.”

“Uh huh,” the receptionist said. The tie was an odd sort of maroon that probably should’ve looked better with his shirt than it did. “Could you - you know, show me some ID, please?”

“Yes, you would need that, wouldn’t you,” Peter grumbled, then caught himself and forced a smile again. “One moment.”

Acutely aware of his time slipping away, he patted down his coat pockets, then the pockets of his trousers. On his second search of his coat, he found his wallet and rifled through it for something he could use.

“Here,” he said, proffering his driver’s license. “That should work.”

The receptionist took the card. His fingernails were unusually short. “Right,” he said. “I’ll just . . . look up Mr. Wright’s records now . . .”

Peter waited as the receptionist turned back to his computer and began to type, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet of the waiting area. Hands shoved in his pockets, he considered feeding the man to the Lonely just to speed things along, but the receptionist looked up again before he could make up his mind.

“That seems in order, Mr. Lukas,” the receptionist said. He handed back Peter’s driver’s license, as well as a disposable plastic wristband with _Visitor_ written on it. “Mr. Wright is in room 216.”

He pointed vaguely down the hall.

“Thanks,” Peter said, taking the wristband and struggling to fasten it. No, he wouldn’t give the Lonely a fresh sacrifice. Despite his continued irritation with James, he was inclined to be generous.

He found the room with little difficulty. The few other people traversing the hallways were all too busy to take much notice of him, although at one point he was very nearly trapped in an elevator with one of them. He narrowly escaped this fate by changing course at the last minute and ducking down a nearby hall, only circling back around when he was sure he’d be alone.

His footsteps echoed down the hall as he approached his destination - a heavy door painted the same shade of off-white as everything else, the room number stenciled in black near the top. The emptiness of it put Peter a little more at ease.

He knocked. When no one responded, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the sharp odor of disinfectant that permeated the room, clinical and repellent. Fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare down from the ceiling and made everything look even more washed out. A cluster of monitors beeped softly beside the utilitarian hospital bed, flashing with lines and numbers Peter didn’t understand, and a nurse in a crisp white uniform stood over the prone body of James Wright, making notes on a clipboard. As Peter shut the door behind him, she looked over questioningly.

Peter held up the arm with the wristband on it.

“Oh,” said the nurse. “No one told me a visitor was here.”

If she gave him any trouble at all, he’d give her to the Lonely, generous mood or no. “Sorry,” Peter said. “Didn’t mean to go against procedure or anything. I don’t really spend a lot of time in hospitals.”

The nurse smiled uncertainly. “You’re a family member, then?”

“Yes,” Peter lied. Whatever got her out of the room fastest. “I thought I’d - you know, come by and . . . see him.”

The nurse hesitated, then nodded, as if understanding. “Of course. It’s not easy when something like this happens.”

 _I wouldn’t know_ , Peter thought wryly. Funerals were the only times he saw most of his relatives, which was how they all liked it anyway. Gray skies, damp earth, formal clothing, and polished wood caskets - those were the things he associated with family. It wasn’t a tragedy or anything. Just life.

He tried to act like he knew what she was talking about anyway. “Difficult for all of us,” he agreed. “Could I get some time alone with him? To . . .” God, what did people do at sickbeds?

Thankfully, the nurse seemed to draw a conclusion that was not “carefully extract his eyeballs” from Peter’s words. She nodded again, expression sympathetic. “If his condition changes in any way, just press this button to notify me,” she said, indicating a red button on the wall. “I’ll be right outside.”

Peter nodded. That didn’t leave him a lot of time to work, but he couldn’t come up with a reason for her to go further away that didn’t sound incredibly suspicious.

The door clicked shut.

Finally, Peter turned his attention to James. He’d been avoiding looking at the body; there was something unnatural about seeing James lying quiet and still on a small, hard bed, clear plastic tubes sticking out of his skin. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that he was still alive.

 _Of course nothing short of a heart attack would be enough to shut him up_ , Peter thought with a soft, slightly nonsensical laugh, stepping over to the bed. He’d have to enjoy the silence while it lasted.

He pulled the bag of bladed instruments from his coat and set to work.

“I hope you appreciate exactly what it is I'm doing for you here,” he told James Wright’s body mildly as he wiped the scalpel clean afterward. “I could’ve just let you die and not had to acquaint myself with the backs of your eyeballs.”

He thought about that for a moment and frowned.

He’d been so focused on being annoyed with James that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it meant that James had trusted him with this in the first place. More accurately, that James had trusted his knowledge of Peter enough to be sure Peter wouldn’t kill him.

Was he really that predictable?

The thought unsettled him. Not enough to kill Jonah Magnus once and for all out of spite, however, which was almost worse.

Peter shrugged his shoulders once, irritably, trying to shake off the sudden claustrophobic feeling of the room around him. He slid the thermos into his coat again, glad that Jonah’s eyes were trapped in the dark.

When he walked into the Magnus Institute, a woman looked up, startled, from behind a desk. _Great_ , Peter thought, just what he’d needed - another damned receptionist.

“Um, hello?” the woman said.

“Hi,” Peter said without looking at her. The entry area seemed mostly deserted, save for the woman who’d just spoken to him.

There was a brief silence.

“Did you want to make a statement, or . . .?” the woman asked.

“No, no,” Peter said, still looking around the room for any signs of life. The closest thing was a large oil portrait of Jonah Magnus, a little gold plaque beneath it declaring him the _Institute Founder_. Jonah’s expression appeared vaguely amused, his long fingers steepled on the painted table before him.

“Vain bastard,” Peter muttered, then gave in and turned toward the woman behind the desk.

She looked young and thoroughly confused, her curly blond hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. She wore a flower-print blouse with a name tag reading _Rosie_ affixed to it, horn-rimmed glasses, and dark gray slacks.

Peter looked her over appraisingly, then shook his head. No, James probably wouldn’t want to inhabit a woman’s body. And flower-print blouses weren’t really his thing. Shame about that; right now, Peter would’ve given just about anything to have this over with so he could get back to his ship.

“Sir?” Rosie asked.

“Right,” Peter said, clapping his hands together. “Is there a way for me to see all the employees of this institute simultaneously, so I can assess them without too much of a hassle?”

Rosie frowned. “What do you mean, assess them?”

“Never mind,” Peter decided, turning away again. He picked a hall at random and began to walk down it.

“Sir, why exactly are you here?” Rosie called after him.

He didn’t bother to answer.

Peter had been inside the Magnus Institute on more than one occasion, but he never failed to find the layout confusing - and he’d never before had the goal of finding James’ most attractive employee. The halls doubled back on themselves, and all the doors that looked promising were marked _Staff Only_ and required a key. Several times, he thought he’d finally been getting somewhere, then promptly arrived at a dead end and had to turn back.

“Couldn’t be bothered to put any maps around this place, eh?” he asked yet another Jonah Magnus portrait, arms folded.

The portrait did not respond. Maybe Peter was biased, but he thought this one looked especially smug.

He sighed, preparing to retrace his steps for the fifth time. If nothing else came of this experience, he could at least take some notes for his idea about the worst apartment complex in the world.

“Hey, I get being pissed at that painting,” said a voice behind him, “but are you going to stay there all day?”

Peter turned.

His first thought was: _Not bad_. His second: _Oh, this would be_ hilarious.

The man standing before him was young - late twenties, or maybe early thirties; Peter had never been good at judging that sort of thing. He had a pointed face and thick black hair that looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and the buttons on his wrinkled white dress shirt were uneven. His eyes were a darker shade of brown than Jonah's, but the difference wasn't too extreme. One side of his collar was sticking up, and his name tag read _Elias_.

Also, he was nearly a foot shorter than Peter.

“Are you lost or something?” said the man apparently called Elias.

Peter recovered his wits. “You could say that,” he said, putting on his friendliest smile. “Do people get lost here often?”

As he’d expected, Elias smiled back, showing off an excellent set of teeth. “Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty hard to get around this place if you don’t know where you’re going; I took a wrong turn once and spent a whole day in Artifact Storage -”

“Perfect,” Peter said, cutting him off. “So, Elias -”

“Wait, how do you know my name?” Elias asked.

“You’re wearing a name tag,” Peter reminded him helpfully.

Elias blinked. He had surprisingly long eyelashes. He looked down at his shirt, then back at Peter. “Damn,” he said. And again: “ _Damn_. Sorry, mate, I’m not really” - he rubbed his temples - “my brain’s not really working right at the moment.”

“That’s fine,” Peter said. _Probably better, actually_. “You don’t happen to have any close family members, do you?”

Elias frowned. “Er . . . no.”

“Significant others?”

“Not in a while.”

Peter nodded, accepting it. As far as he was concerned, it was a good enough background check. They were still on a deadline here. And, well - he’d never thought of himself as having a _type_ , exactly, but he certainly wouldn’t mind if Jonah wore this body for a while.

He reached into his coat pocket and had an unexpected flash of pity for Elias. He’d never asked what happened to the minds of the people Jonah’s consciousness took over, but it couldn’t be anything good. Elias seemed like a perfectly nice young man - a bit dense, perhaps, but you couldn’t have everything.

Fortunately, his moment of weakness faded quickly. It didn’t really matter, Peter thought. Sometimes you had to kill innocent people in the service of primordial fear gods. It was just how these things went.

“So, do you need help finding something,” Elias asked, oblivious, “or -”

“No,” Peter said with a smile. “I’ve already found what I’m looking for.”

Elias just had time to look confused before Peter cracked him over the head with the paperweight.

He crumpled noiselessly to the floor.

After a moment of waiting - for what, he wasn’t sure - Peter exhaled. _Rather anticlimactic_. There hadn’t even been any blood. Though now that he thought about it, that was probably for the best; he wouldn’t want to waste time cleaning it up. He tucked the chunk of quartz back into his coat, where it clicked softly against the thermos.

Elias’ body lay face-down and motionless on the hardwood.

“If it’s any consolation, I really am sorry about this,” Peter told him.

He hoisted Elias over his shoulder in a kind of half-assed fireman’s carry. It was time for the trickiest part of this operation. _No pun intended_.

Peter had never been in the tunnels under the Magnus Institute before. As far as he was concerned, it was an experience he could’ve done without, especially while carrying an unconscious body. Still, no one was trying to talk to him, so hauling Elias through a network of dark, damp passages toward Jonah Magnus’ underground lair wasn’t the worst thing he’d done today.

Water dripped steadily from the ceiling. Peter quickened his pace.

James had explained the process to him several times, back when it was all a hypothetical and Peter had been happily making fun of him for thinking it would ever be necessary. It was simple enough in principle: just transfer the eyes, then sit back and let the Beholding do its thing. In practice . . . well, the Panopticon’s lighting was suboptimal at best.

 _Nothing to be done about that now_. Sliding Elias’ body off his shoulder, Peter carefully positioned it on the stone floor, placing his head in the patch with the greatest illumination. What he thought was the patch with the greatest illumination, anyway; he moved it twice and still wasn’t satisfied with the results, but didn’t have the patience to keep trying. If he did permanent damage to anything, it would be Jonah’s fault for not thinking to install better light fixtures.

That settled, he pulled out the thermos, unscrewed the top, and surveyed the slowly melting ice, packed in around the eyes that had so recently belonged to James Wright.

“You couldn’t think of a less disgusting way to do this?” he complained to the eyes, and began.

It was slow going. One would think that since he’d managed not to fuck it up the first time, he’d have a better handle on the situation, but it seemed that was not to be. Soon, the iron tang of blood filled the air and Peter’s back grew stiff from hunching over his work. One more item to add to his list of grievances.

Finally, he straightened, his spine creaking in protest.

Elias’ body lay before him. His eyelids had closed without incident when Peter had finished with the swap, which Peter took as a good sign. His face looked pale - probably blood loss, but it could’ve been the light, too - and his white shirt was even more wrinkled than before, not to mention spotted with drying blood.

On the whole, he looked quite well for having just received impromptu eye surgery from an amateur. Nothing to do now but wait. And since Peter would rather wait in relative comfort than . . . _everything_ about the Panopticon, really, he made the executive decision to take them back through the Lonely to James’ apartment.

There was some kind of symmetry to that, Peter thought, setting Elias down on the couch, but he didn’t really want to dissect it at the moment.

One of Elias’ arms dangled listlessly over the edge, fingertips brushing the floor. Peter didn’t bother to move it. Instead, he set about putting back the things he’d taken from the apartment before - except the paperweight, which he’d already resolved to keep until James demanded it back. The various metal tools (he’d used Elias’ shirt to get the blood off them) he returned to the desk; the thermos, now holding Elias’ eyes, went into the refrigerator. What James would do with them, he neither knew nor cared - though the thought of it did amuse him a little.

He settled by the kitchen counter, where he could check for any changes in the state of Elias’ body and drink from the half-empty wine bottle at the same time. He’d be remiss in his duties as James’ ex-husband not to see this through.

It was nearly half an hour before any such change occurred. Peter couldn’t quite remember how long the transition was supposed to take; he was certain James had told him at one point, but with all the other things he’d had to keep track of, the memory was frustratingly fuzzy. Bored and restless, he was so busy wondering when something would happen that when it did, he nearly missed it.

He was reaching for the bottle again (it was now only a quarter full) when a sudden motion caught his eye. It was small and so quick he wouldn’t have spotted it had he blinked at the wrong time. But it happened: a slight furrowing of Elias’ brow, a twist of his mouth that had not been there before.

Peter was tempted to vanish right then and there. Success had been achieved, James would be awake at any moment, and the _Tundra_ was waiting for him. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite convince himself to do it.

He took a step closer to the couch.

Elias’ eyelids fluttered. He groaned, sitting up, and the eyes of Jonah Magnus looked out at the room.

“I always hate this part,” he muttered, rubbing the side of his head. He looked up at Peter and frowned. “Why are you so tall?”

It was an odd thing, hearing James’ - _Jonah’s_ \- cadences in Elias’ voice. Peter smiled to cover his surprise. “Unfortunate consequence of genetics,” he said.

James rolled his eyes, which couldn’t have been good for them so soon after their insertion. “Ha ha.” He examined the backs of his new hands: long, slender fingers, smooth skin, well-groomed nails. A bit like Jonah’s in the paintings, actually, though Peter hadn’t made the connection before. “Who am I?”

Peter gestured toward the full-length mirror propped against one wall - another of James’ concessions to vanity. There were so many. “See for yourself.”

James stood shakily, like a newborn colt testing out its legs for the first time. He picked at his shirt with a look of distaste, as if just then noticing the bloodstains on the white fabric, and wobbled over to look in the mirror. His expression changed so rapidly Peter was tempted to laugh - at least, before James turned back to look at him again.

“Elias Bouchard?” he demanded. “ _Really_ ?”

Peter shrugged. “I was a bit short on time. And he’s nice-looking enough, isn’t he?”

“He’s a fucking stoner nobody,” James seethed. “Honestly, do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to make this idiot the head of the Institute without anyone getting suspicious?”

Peter shrugged again. “Should’ve thought of that before you decided to up and die, then,” he said. “Really, this entire situation is your fault.”

James glared at him. It was not an expression especially well-suited to Elias’ face, but somehow he made it work. “I want a divorce.”

“We’re already divorced,” Peter reminded him. “I checked when I got to the hospital.”

He paused. “Actually,” he said, “we've never even been married now. Legally speaking.”

If it was possible, James’ glare intensified. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe wait a few hours first,” Peter said cheerfully, settling down on James’ couch and propping his boots on the ottoman. “Get used to the new body and all. Then we’ll see.”

“You're not funny,” James informed him.

That was a matter of debate, but Peter didn’t argue the point. “Look,” he said instead, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, “if you really don't like him, we can always go back and pick out someone else.”

James made a strange, frustrated noise. Peter wasn't sure what to make of it; _he'd_ thought the offer quite generous. Finally, James sighed, grabbed the bottle of wine off the counter, and drank.

“He’s not bad-looking,” he said grudgingly when he’d finished.

Peter smiled. “I have excellent taste.”

“Mm,” said James. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then stretched like a cat, arching his back and bringing his arms up over his head. The bloodstained shirt rose with them, revealing a narrow strip of skin just above his waistband. Peter tried not to look too openly, but decided he wasn’t fooling either of them.

James dropped his arms and shook himself out. His shirt settled back into place. “He’s flexible, too,” he said, sounding quite pleased. “Can just feel it. I wonder . . .”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged briskly. “Well, it’ll be a lot of work, getting everything in order.”

“Does that mean you’re keeping him?” Peter asked.

“For now,” James said, almost lazily. He rolled his shoulders and sighed with obvious satisfaction.

Peter stood, straightening his coat. “Wonderful,” he said. He could almost feel the sea air on his skin again. “Why don’t I leave you here to get acquainted with him in more detail, hm?”

“Oh, you’re staying,” said James - no, _Elias_. There was something sharp and wicked about his smile. “I haven’t been in a young body in quite some time. We’ve got a lot of experimenting to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that Jonah and Peter wouldn't have legally been able to get married in the time that this fic is set, but I didn't want to sacrifice all the jokes I got out of it. In a similar vein, I know nothing about the proper transportation of severed eyes, so just assume they are perfectly fine and undamaged because Weird Eldritch Powers, okay?


End file.
